


A Fireside Tale

by QueenoftheDarned



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Harrow's a bit of a lad, One-Shot, Pre-Canon, Story within a Story, Storytelling, Viren's wife makes an appearance, implied bisexual Harrow, young Harrow, young Viren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheDarned/pseuds/QueenoftheDarned
Summary: On the night Prince Ezran is born, Harrow shares a celebratory drink or five with an old friend. Enjoy the tale of how Harrow and Viren came to be so close, retold with… well, varying degrees of accuracy. There is a lot of wine involved, after all. Which bits are true? You decide…
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	A Fireside Tale

King Harrow paced up and down the hallway outside the royal chambers, straining his ears above the sound of the rain pelting the windows. Sarai’s screams had torn through here for hours before they abruptly stopped. That felt like an age ago. Now there was only one thing for the king of Katolis to do, and that was wait.

The door opened a crack, and the midwife gave him a baleful stare. “Ye can stop wearin’ holes in the carpet now, yer Highness.” She had somewhere near eighty winters under her belt, and wore them like Sarai wore her crown. She tutted and shook her head at Harrow’s worry-creased brow, but her eyes crinkled at the edges. “Come meet yer son.”

Harrow crossed the room as if in a daze. Sarai lay, exhausted, among scattered pillows and sweat-dampened sheets. He kissed her forehead, and marvelled at the tiny creature in her arms. 

“Should I fetch Callum?” he whispered. Sarai grimaced to show him what she thought of _that_ idea. “Heh, you’re right. Tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow,” Sarai agreed. Her voice was hoarse, but she wore a smile. They sat in awe-filled silence for a while longer, gazing upon their sleeping son, until the midwife cleared her throat, casting meaningful glances at the door. 

“Queen Sarai and the prince will need their rest, now,” she said. Harrow kissed his wife once more, before reluctantly leaving her and their son to their sleep. The midwife hardly waited for him to walk through the door before she slammed it shut behind him.

Harrow wanted to run through the castle shouting the good news. But it was long after midnight, and the halls were dark and empty, apart from the night patrols. After several rounds of whispered congratulations from the guards, Harrow should have been ready to retire to the spare room he’d been relegated to for the night. Sleep was the last thing on his mind, though. 

Besides, there _was_ one person in the castle who would be awake at such an hour.

* * *

Viren had been expecting the soft knock at his door. He opened it to find Harrow standing there almost sheepishly. “Come in,” he said, and gestured to the fire blazing in the hearth. “I understand congratulations are in order?”

“Thank you.” Harrow fizzed with energy. Viren went to the mantelpiece and took down a bottle of maple wine and two goblets.

“Shall we drink a toast?” He offered a goblet to Harrow, who hesitated.

“Do you think I should? What if Sarai needs me?"

Viren chuckled. “I’m sure she’s in good hands. Come, my friend, one glass of wine won’t hurt. Enjoy this evening, for there will be plenty of sleepless nights in the near future.” Harrow grinned and relented, allowing the High Mage to pour him a drink. Viren filled his own glass and raised it. “Well, then. To…?”

“Ezran.” Harrow beamed with pride. “Prince Ezran.”

“To Prince Ezran. Long may he live, and may he be even half the man his father is.” 

They drank - the wine was heady, strong, and perfect for a night like this. The two friends settled in armchairs by the fire as rain lashed the windows of Viren’s tower.

“I recall I used to be the one persuading _you_ to take a drink,” remarked Harrow. Viren shot him a sideways glance.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“How did I get to be so boring?”

“It only gets worse from here on, believe me,” Viren told him. “After a year of being fast asleep by ten bells, you’ll wonder how you ever managed to live any other way.” He gave a quiet laugh. “You used to get me into all kinds of trouble.”

“Oh-ho! Is _that_ how you remember it?” Harrow grinned and shook his head.

“Don’t you remember how we met?”

“Go on, remind me.”

“Very well.” Viren swirled the wine in his glass and thought for a moment. “I believe it went something like this…”

* * *

Midsummer in Katolis was a season of festivals and, for the wealthy, of pageantry and endless soirees and balls. It was also a time of charity, when the royal family funded street parties for the city folk, to thank the labourers for toiling in the fields, planting the crops that would keep Katolis fed for the rest of the year. The uneasy peace between the five human kingdoms had strengthened into friendship, at least among those too young to remember the wars. In short, it was the perfect time for the royal sons and daughters of the kingdoms to drink, dance and flirt, and try to ignore the way their parents sniped and glared at one another over past grievances.

Viren _hated_ midsummer. As far as he was concerned, the season seemed to exist solely to take him away from his studies. The journey from Vinholt to the capital took a week, and Viren spent much of the time trying to ignore his parents’ hints that _this year,_ he should find a nice, well-bred young lady to settle down with. This year (or any year), he had no intention of finding a wife, well-bred or otherwise. He had more pressing concerns. 

He suffered through the reception, where the Royal Family’s guests were announced and brought forth to greet the king and queen. (The prince, now eighteen years old and the subject of many a scandalised whisper back home, was curiously absent.) Then, as soon as everyone’s attention had slipped from him, Viren snuck from the hall and made for the one place he knew would be free of gossipy aristocrats - the castle library. He knew the route well, the mental map in his head clear. Now all he had to do was retrace his steps, avoiding the guards who were stationed in the hallways, on the lookout for troublemakers. Or, more likely, guests who had partaken a little too much and gotten lost. 

He hadn’t expected to stumble - literally - into the arms of the crown prince.

“What the-?” he yelped, as a pair of strong hands seized his shoulders. He felt himself spun around, his back hitting the shelves, to find himself nose-to-nose with Prince Harrow. The prince stared at him, the stupid grin slipping from his face.

“Blazes, you’re not-” he cut himself off, and dropped Viren like a hot coal. He took a few paces backward and coughed awkwardly. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Clearly.” Viren scowled and smoothed his crumpled sleeves. “Does His Highness always greet his guests by ambushing them?” Harrow didn’t seem perturbed by Viren’s lack of manners. In fact, he turned his face to hide a smirk.

“Not all of them.” Viren briefly wondered which handsome young lady or lordling the prince had arranged to meet here. “I can only apologise. I- what have you lost?” Harrow frowned as Viren turned away, checking his pockets and looking increasingly frantic. 

“My primal stone,” Viren said through gritted teeth. “I must have dropped it when you grabbed me.”

“Your _what?”_ Harrow’s eyes widened as realisation dawned. “You’re Viren - the mage from Vinholt!”

“Not without my primal stone, I’m not,” said Viren, with mounting impatience. He knelt and carefully pushed his hand beneath the nearest bookshelf. A moment later he heard the creak of floorboards as Harrow joined him in his search. “It’s been handed down in my family for generations.”

“It’s not broken, is it?” 

“If it was, we would have been swept away in a hurricane by now.” Viren’s fingertips met something smooth and cold, and he sighed with relief as he felt the familiar crackle of energy against his skin. “Thank the sources for that.” He straightened up, and felt the prince’s eyes on him as he held up the orb, examining it for any minute cracks. Fortunately, the shell was whole, the immense power within it held at bay.

“That’s a relief. I would have had a hard time explaining to my parents how their library was destroyed in a freak magical storm.” Harrow chuckled to himself. “Or what I was doing there with the most antisocial bachelor in the kingdom.” 

Viren wasn’t sure what to think about that. “I, ah, wasn’t aware I had a reputation.”

“Says the man who spends every midsummer holed up in here.” Seeing Viren’s surprise, Harrow gave a shrug. “This isn’t the first time I’ve snuck out. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with-” They both froze as the door to the library cracked open. 

“Your Highness?” a hesitant voice called. “Your presence is required in the main hall for the banquet preparations. By order of the Queen.” Viren didn’t recognise the voice, but apparently Harrow did, because he swore under his breath.

“Crown guard,” he said quietly in Viren’s ear, as footsteps echoed through the library. “I think that’s our cue to leave.” 

“You’re not going to answer your summons?”

“And miss the opportunity to go carousing before dinnertime?” Harrow shook his head in mock disappointment. “Come, follow my lead.” He waited until the guard’s footsteps receded to the far end of the library, and stuck his head around the end of the shelf. “The coast’s clear,” he whispered. He stepped out into the aisle and beckoned for Viren to follow him.

“The door’s _that_ way,” Viren hissed back. Harrow simply shot him a mysterious smile over his shoulder, and kept going. He swiftly crossed the aisle and disappeared around a corner - Viren had to hurry to keep up. They came to a dead end, much like the niche where Harrow had grabbed him.

“Don’t tell me you have a secret passage behind these shelves,” said Viren, keeping his voice low.

“That sounds incredibly inconvenient.” Harrow dropped to his knees and began to roll up the narrow carpet. He felt around for a moment, before pushing firmly on a knot in one of the floorboards - there was a faint _click_ , and a square section of the floor rose up just enough for him to pry it open, revealing a square-shaped hole with a ladder leading down. Viren couldn’t help but stare - if one didn’t know exactly where to press, the trapdoor would be impossible to spot.  
“After you,” Harrow gestured to the ladder. Viren moved over to the edge of the hole and peered down. “It will take us to the stables or the courtyard, depending on which direction we take,” Harrow explained, seeing his new friend’s hesitation. Viren pushed his primal stone further into his pocket and swung his legs over the edge of the hole.

“This isn’t how I expected to spend my afternoon, Your Highness,” he said, as he began to descend. Above him, Harrow grinned and shot him a wink.

“And here I was disappointed at being stood up.”

* * *

King Harrow tipped his head back and laughed. The wine and the fire were warming, and the room was becoming comfortably muzzy. “I forgot about that,” he said, fixing Viren with a grin. “Sarai would enjoy this story.”

“Sources, _don’t_ tell her,” groaned Viren, “I’ll never hear the end of it.” The pad of small feet on the carpet made thim trail off. Claudia stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, her stuffed dragon trailing from its tail by her side.

“Claudia!” Viren rose from his chair, concern flitting across his face. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, her tone faintly accusing. Harrow suppressed a smile, but Viren didn’t seem to notice. 

“It’s far too cold to be wandering around! Come, let’s get you back to bed.” He scooped the six-year-old into his arms. “I’ll be right back,” he said, casting a long-suffering look at Harrow over his shoulder as he carried her from the room. 

True to his word, he crept back into the room a short while later, and sank wearily into his chair. “If I had a silver crown for every ‘last goodnight kiss’...” he trailed off, shaking his head, but he was smiling. “Anyway, where was I..?”

* * *

The _Snared Swain_ was definitely a first for Viren. The tavern was, Harrow assured him, the kind of place where people knew to mind their own business. And mind their business they did - with a kind of practiced indifference that meant they were probably keeping a sharp ear out for trouble. 

The floors were greasy, and the glassware greasier. Viren inspected his seat before he sat down. The muscle-bound bartender had an air of abject boredom as she leaned one elbow on the bar.

“What’s it to be, lads? Ye better be drinking - we don’t put tables out so toffs can sit there flapping their lips.” Viren sighed - even in the prince’s plainest and most worn clothes, the pair of them still stood out a mile off. It was in the way Harrow moved - no matter where he went, he acted as if he owned the place. That, coupled with Viren’s scholarly good looks-

_(“Really, Viren?"_

_“So I've been told," said Viren, a touch defensively. “More than once." Harrow snorted and refilled his wine glass._

_“Trust me, it wasn’t your looks that made you stick out. It was the way you refused to touch anything.” He handed the bottle to Viren, who refilled his own glass with a disdainful sniff._

_“If you would like to tell the story instead, then by all means…”_

_“Perhaps I will!")_

Undeterred, Prince Harrow gave the barwoman his most dashing smile. Though he was not yet the wise, patient man he would one day become, he had an easy-going, endearing charisma that could break through even the hardest shell.

“An ale,” he said, “and-?” He looked enquiringly at the dour man sitting opposite him.

“Water.”

“Two ales.” The bartender visibly suppressed an eye roll at the antics of this pair of lovable rogues who had wandered into her bar, and went to the taps to pour their drinks. Harrow turned back to Viren.

“See, isn’t this fun?”

“Mhm, _fun_ ,” said Viren. “That is indeed what I am having.” There was a fiddle player tuning up in the corner. He didn’t seem to be making much progress.

“Oh, come now. Surely this is better than being shut away with all those dusty books?”

“I _like_ books.” That last remark went ignored, as the barwoman set their drinks none-too-gently on the bar, and Harrow had to get up and fetch them.

“What were you looking for, anyway?” he asked, once he had returned. “I doubt we’d have anything on magic in our library. It’s not really what my family is known for.”

“Not _primal_ magic,” said Viren scornfully. Harrow waited for the mage to elaborate, but he just pushed his drink wordlessly across the table.

“You mean… _dark_ magic?” Harrow ventured, lowering his voice. Viren’s hand stilled, and their gaze met. “Isn’t that all mummery - smoke and mirrors?”

“It wasn’t always.” Viren narrowed his eyes as if deciding whether to go on or not. Harrow waited patiently for him to continue. “Have you ever heard of a man called Ziard?” he said eventually.

“Ziard the Adamant?”

“Ziard the Obstinate, Ziard the Resolute, Ziard the Pig-Headed,” Viren flapped his hand dismissively. “The story changes with each retelling. But yes, _that_ Ziard.”

“What about him?

“What if I told you I’m a direct descendant of his?” Harrow’s eyebrows rose.

“That’s… quite a claim.” He regarded his new friend over the top of his ale.

“I’d appreciate it if it stayed between the two of us.” That was understandable - some popular accounts of Elarion’s downfall said Ziard had abandoned the city to its fate. Harrow nodded, and Viren seemed to relax a little.

“So, you’re a descendant of the most powerful human mage who ever lived. And, what? He could do dark magic?” A thin smile tugged at the corners of Viren’s mouth, and for the first time Harrow saw the spark of raw excitement that he would come to know so well.

“He _invented_ it. He discovered that all living things have their own, tiny sources of magic. And he could _use_ those sources to draw power from the world around him. Can you imagine?” Viren spread his fingers wide, as if feeling for magical currents in the very air.

“Blazes, you’re serious about this, aren’t you? Not like those snake-oil peddlers hawking frogspawn jelly or goose spit.”

“Indeed.” Viren suddenly seemed to grow wary. “You… you’re not going to tell everyone about this, are you? I doubt they would understand.”

“On my honour,” Harrow assured him, hand on heart. “I won’t tell a soul.” He took a sip of his ale and made a face. “Well, that’s certainly ...something.”

“I thought you came here all the time.”

“That may have been an exaggeration,” admitted the prince. “Come on, daytime drinking’s no fun when all we have to drink is dishwater.” Viren wasn’t about to argue with this - he was perfectly eager to leave this dingy hole behind.

They left their tepid drinks and a scattering of coins on the table, and made their way through the tangled streets of Katolis’ bridgeside district. In the distance they could hear music and the sounds of tents being constructed, as preparations for the midsummer celebrations were underway. They made their way towards the noise in the hopes of finding something better to drink.

That was until they ducked down a secluded street and stumbled across a robbery in progress.

An old man and a younger woman sat astride grey horses in the middle of the street, surrounded by a half dozen men with weapons in their hands, slowly closing in. They had a wagon, Harrow noticed, which was heaped with goods - they were traveling merchants, then.

“Stay back!” barked the woman - she wasn’t much older than Harrow, wisps of her blonde hair falling in her face as she rummaged in her saddlebag. Her horse snorted and shifted uneasily.

“Now then, lady,” said one of the approaching men, a greying fellow with broad shoulders and military bearing. His tone was polite - genial, even - but the sword in his hand was anything but. “There’s no need for any trouble. This is Katolis, after all. We’re civilized people. So why don’t you dismount - slowly - and hand over any coin you’re carrying?”

“Do as he says, Estelle,” the older gentleman said, though the woman - Estelle - ignored him. His accent was from Duren, and Harrow realised with dismay that they had probably travelled all this way for the festival.

“We should do something,” he said in Viren’s ear.

“Like _what?”_ Viren shot back. “There’s twice as many of them-” he never got to finish that thought, as Harrow strode straight towards the standoff.

“Lay down your weapons!” he ordered. The brigands couldn’t help but stare at the audacity of this lone, unarmed man who had appeared in their midst. The leader grinned and swung his sword, but within seconds Harrow had ducked beneath his blade and disarmed him, pulling the hidden dagger from his boot and using it to parry the blows raining down from the other ruffians-

_(“Oh, is_ that _what happened?” Viren arched an eyebrow. “And here I thought you ended up rolling in the dirt.”_

_“It must be the wine,” said Harrow, with a laugh. “It’s fogging your memory.”_

_“That’s strange, because I could have sworn it went more like this…”)_

“Lay down your weapons!” he ordered. Viren’s heart sank as six - no, eight - pairs of eyes turned to stare at them. The merchant and his daughter wore expressions that looked uncomfortably like a mix of pity and disappointment.

“Clear off, lordling,” sneered the robbers’ leader, turning to face him. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Surely you don’t think you can get away with attacking people in broad daylight?”

“And who is going to stop us? _You?”_ The ruffian’s confidence was hardly misplaced - the guards were busy overseeing the festival. The man took a step toward Harrow, his blade glinting viciously in the sunlight.

“Wait! Leave them be, just take the money!” Estelle lifted her arm and tossed a leather pouch over the robbers’ heads. It landed in the street with the unmistakable rattle of coins. She threw Viren a look that said _get your idiot friend out of here before he makes everything worse-_

( _“Now you’re being obstinate,” complained Harrow. “Who’s meant to be telling this story, anyway?”_

_“Fine, fine. Do carry on.”)_

The robbers followed the purse’s arc as it sailed through the air before landing on the cobbled street. They were distracted for an instant, but that was enough - Harrow and Viren had both caught the glint of something else concealed in the young merchant’s hand. Harrow leapt at the leader, knocking him from his feet and wrenching the blade from his hand as they struggled on the ground. 

Estelle raised her hand once more and smashed the vial she was holding on the cobblestones with all her might. A cloud of yellowish dust flew into the air, making her horse rear with fright. Two of the robbers, caught in the middle of the cloud, collapsed into a fit of coughing.

The others advanced on Viren, no doubt seeing an easy target. They hesitated when he drew his primal stone from his pocket, which gave him time to trace a rune with his fingertip. A gust of wind burst from the stone, whipping the yellow cloud into a ball and enveloping the robbers’ heads. The air filled with the sound of choking and spluttering as they fought to clear the dust from their lungs.

“Give up,” panted Harrow, having gotten his arms around the leader’s neck. The man scrabbled for purchase on the ground, his face going red.

“Fine,” he croaked, slapping the cobblestones. “I surrender.” 

Ten minutes later, the brigands were sitting in the middle of the street, bound with rope taken from the merchants’ wagon. Viren had long since dispersed the yellow dust, but still they coughed and retched, their eyes red and streaming. Estelle and her father had gone to find some guards, leaving him and Harrow to stand guard. Of course, Harrow couldn’t miss the chance to gloat.

“Maybe you’ll think twice before accosting people in the street,” he said coolly, with a glare at the leader.

“And what other choice we got?” snapped one of the others, his voice strained. “Starvin’ through the winter, toilin’ all spring, so the rich can throw their fancy parties all summer long!”

“That’s not true,” Harrow shot back, arms folded tightly. “My father provides for everyone in the kingdom.”

“Your…” the leader’s eyes shot open wide as he took in Harrow as if seeing him properly for the first time. “Blazes, you’re the prince!”

“I am,” said Harrow, glaring at the grey-haired man. “That sword belongs to a Katolian soldier. Where did you get it from?”

“Aye, it’s a soldier’s blade, and it belongs to me. I served your daddy’s army for twenty long years. Look at me now.” He uttered a bitter laugh. “Robbin’ merchants for coin to keep my little girl warm and fed.”

“That’s no excuse. Soldiers get a stipend, even after their service.”

“As if that’s enough to feed a family!” all the bound men were looking up at Harrow with open disgust. For once, the prince was lost for words.

The guards arrived, and wasted no time in carting the men away. Harrow watched them go with an uneasy frown, but Viren’s attention was caught by Estelle, who was re-securing the wagon. He took a breath to steel his nerves, and approached her.

“That was Stickweed pollen you threw,” he remarked, placing his hands on a crate to steady it while Estelle checked her knots. “Very resourceful, to use it as a weapon.”

“Expensive, too.” Estelle replied. “Father won’t be too pleased about that, but he’ll get over it.” She looked at Viren, giving him a pointed glance over. “So, you’re a friend of the prince. Do you live at the castle too?” Viren opened his mouth and shut it a few times, fumbling for an answer.

“Of course he does,” Harrow said, coming up behind them and slapping Viren’s shoulder. “He’s the royal mage.” 

* * *

“The royal mage,” Viren remarked dryly. “Imagine that.” Harrow laughed, twirling his empty glass clumsily between his fingers.

“Luckily Father thought having a mage in the castle would be a boon.”

“More likely he thought I would be a good influence on you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Estelle cut in, from her spot in the doorway. She let out an amused snort as the two friends jumped, casting guilty glances at the empty wine bottle on the table. “You two are as much trouble as you were back then.”

“More importantly, did it impress you?” Harrow waved a sloppy hand in Viren’s direction. “That and his _scholarly good looks,_ I mean.” Estelle stepped into the room, producing another wine bottle from behind her back. She made a show of inspecting Viren as she mulled the question over, just as she had done that day beside the wagon. 

“Well, he must have done something right,” she said at last, with a sly smile. “I _did_ marry him, after all.”

* * *

The rain had abated when Harrow finally toppled into bed, warm-cheeked and pleasantly muzzy. Before sleep overtook him completely, he briefly wondered at the future his newborn son would have. Ezran was lucky to have an older brother to look up to, he thought with difficulty, as the events of the day jumbled into one another. Perhaps, together, they too would have adventures and do great things for the kingdom.

With a lazy smile, Harrow closed his eyes, and slept.

**Author's Note:**

> So, the Dragon Prince creators are maddeningly sneaky about things like town names - which is like, fine and everything, as long as you enjoy wild speculation, and don't mind that I pulled many, MANY things out of my ass. Not everyone is going to like that, and that’s okay.  
> Anyway, if they ever build a TTRPG setting based on the Dragon Prince universe, I’ll be the first to buy it, if only for the damn map!


End file.
